


what cruel world is this (nectar of the gods)?

by occultine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dark Past, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hogwarts, Past Jason Grace/Piper McLean, Sad Nico di Angelo, Teenagers, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-01-21 05:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21294260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occultine/pseuds/occultine
Summary: There is a girl glowing softly in the early evening sunlight, shimmering with a glow of incandescent brilliance. She looks young, a flannel shirt tied around her waist and her hair falling in gentle waves, glancing behind as if to check that he is still following. She casts no shadow onto the cracking pavements. Perhaps she is not there after all.-x-or, how a desperate plea from a ghost leads Nico to navigate his way though the wizarding world.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hazel Levesque/Frank Zhang, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Nico di Angelo/Will Solace
Comments: 25
Kudos: 118





	1. i. once i found my way, but now i am lost

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you like this. 
> 
> (work title is from lana del rey's - wild one).

CHAPTER ONE

He has seen the decades melt into an obscure century he cannot remember, passing through as if only a ghost for a lifetime he has not lived. The sky is melting from blue into orange, dusk slanting through the sky that has never seen so  _ big _ , so daunting in a way he can't think about. 

There is cigarette smoke curling around the air and the memories of a 40s smoky alleyway his throat. The streets are crowded with tired eyes and heavy souls, fear residing in the hollow bones of those who have seen too much of this world, seeking their redemption in the big sky that watches them. (People are scared, and maybe a lot of changed but maybe not enough).

There is a girl glowing softly in the early evening sunlight, shimmering with a glow of incandescent brilliance. She looks young, a flannel shirt tied around her waist and her hair falling in gentle waves, glancing behind as if to check that he is still following. She casts no shadow onto the cracking pavements. Perhaps she is not there after all. 

His eyes are dark and focused and she is smiling like she has all the time in the world in the spectral light, young and slight with an elegant neck thats beauty is only marred by the grotesque scar that runs across it. As if testingly, she laughs and the gentle sound reverberates through the distance between them. 

He slips under a bulky arm with a sleeve of tattoos and darts out of the throng of people cramping the pavements. Quickly, the girl slips into an alleyway and he bites down his bitterness at the whole game of cat and mouse, smoothing down his hair and following her in the alleyway. 

"I know who you are," she starts, and her voice is soft and mellow and it reminds him of hot summer nights of pomegranate and sultry laughs. She looks older now, maybe a few years older than him perhaps, but she is still far too young for death. 

He nods. "I know," he says, and she narrows her silver eyes at his extended hand. "I'm sorry for this."

She doesn't take his hand, and he isn't really surprised. There are those who can accept their deaths and those who can not. (Most people are in the latter; it doesn't surprise him she is one of them). 

"No you're not."

He's not sure what to say to that. 

It is almost dark now, with the last shards of sunset skimming the building tops, painting them both in the ichor of golden hour. Her t-shirt is stained with dark splodges, colourless in her death but sinking into her skin the way it does his heart.

"Don't shoot the messenger," he bites, but drops his hand knowing that she won't give in so easily. 

(There is a trash can to his left and a boarded up window to his right. There is a chain link fence at the other end. One exit. He doesn't want to be here after dark).

Fingers entwined, he notices, knuckles even whiter. "We need your help."

"Excuse me?"

She steps forward, surged by a sudden burst of confidence. Cat-like, her eyes, long and narrowed and piercing even in their transparency. "We won the war the first time, but I guess not well enough."

He steps back at her approach, uncomfortable with the proximity. "Wizards," he figures. "You're a witch."

"Was a witch, you mean," she snaps bitterly. "Now I'm dead, throat slit to disguise the fact that you can't commit suicide without anything to die by."

He frowns, words caught on his tongue.

He remembers the wizards and the witches of the underworld, the way they muttered and screamed of a man with glowing and snakes and this death that is creeping around the pavements. (But there is no time to dwell on their pasts, not when the only judgement they will face is their own). 

The ghost drags her scrutinizing gaze up and down his face, "we have a lot to discuss, follow me,  _ puer angelis die _ ." 

"What if I don't want to help you,  _ phasma _ ." 

She spins on her heels and continues down the alleyways. "I know you cannot resist a test- think of this as one."

The sky is big and overwhelming, a dark haze of fading colour behind the silhouette of London. (There is a trash can to his left and another to his right. The chain link fence is very rusty upon further inspection, probably easier to break. He doesn't want to be here after dark). 

He swallows down his pride and follows the ghost. "Father doesn't like to wait," he lies easily. She doesn't pause.

"This won't take long."

(You can take a dead man to water, but you can't him drink)

-

"I'm sorry, I don't understand? You want me to go to  _ school _ ?" He crosses his arms over his chest and frowns. It's dark now, and there is an itching in his bones that makes him want to run. 

She laughs, and it sounds like music played late at night in mid-july, pomegranates and wine swept away into thick hot air you can hold in your hands. 

They are stood by the chain link fence, and there is a cat watching them with sky green eyes glinting in the moonlight. There is a boarded up window to his left. Two exit routes. "I know this is hard but  _ God, people are dying, _ kid. I don't know how much that means to you- does it mean  _ anything _ to you, death?"

"Who do you take me for,  _ larua _ ? I am  _ not _ my father."

"So you will?" she says, silver eyes lazy with satisfaction and the sky spilling it's blood all over the floor. 

"I could never resist an adventure." 

He wonders if this can be an opportunity for reinvention, of himself, like he has done for the past two years, tried on different personalities and tried to find one that fits. He's sixteen and has the world at his fingertips, lived through the decades as nothing more than a phantom in the shadows. 

The girls smiles, "go to the Leaky Cauldron, I'm sure Tom would let you send a letter for free in exchange for a sad story and maybe a little work. You will find a few books in your room to help you and who knows, you may even carve a place into our world,  _ haedus _ ."

(You can lead a dead man to water but-)

-

He reaches for her hand she takes it, trembling underneath his fingers as she casts her eyes to the sky that prickles with stars, streaks of silver through her hair. (She glimmers eerily through the darkness). 

He speaks with soft words in a language so dead it rests beneath his feet, his own hollow bones decaying with the ancient darkness seeping through the ground. (She listens but does not hear. There are tires screeching in the distance).

The moon has a heavy gaze of a celestial judgement and the stars hold the secrets he buries in his grave. Standing in the warm August nights with a ghost not really there at all, passing through the decades without living another lifetime, and she trembles in his fingers, her shining brilliance dulling with each passing second. Her eyes are on the sky and his on her crumbling skin. She casts no shadow onto the pavement.

(Perhaps she is not here after all).

"I'm sorry about this,” he tries.

She smiles, even though her eyes are tired and empty and her cheeks are sunken with age. “No you're not.”

(Her bones are falling apart).

  
  
  


-x-

  
  
  


He walks the streets alone, the darkness falling thick and heavy around him, footsteps silent and breath clouding. Eyes roaming the sky, the constellations of stars, and he tugs his beanie from his hair and stuffs it in his pocket. (He didn't want to be here after dark)!

He walks the streets alone and slinks into the darkness, melting into the shadows that curl around his feet. His eyelids weigh heavy, burning each time he blinks as his lips crack in the cold air.

Illuminated by the orange streetlights, he pushes his palms onto his forehead and breathes through the bitterness in his throat. He treads through the empty streets with doubt in his footsteps. (He didn't want to be here after dark)!

Eyes narrow, scrutinizing, the glow of the streetlights rest on a building tucked away from the rest, paint peeling and windows steamed. He swallows the anxiety in his throat, clenches his doubt in his fists. (It's almost as if it isn't here at all). 

His hand hovers over the worn handle. 

(He didn't want to be here after dark)!

  
  


-

  
  


Tom regards him with a kind of offhand curiosity. “What can I get you?” He asks, voice gruff and low as Nico steps up to the bar, pulling down his black hood and letting the lights fan over his face. 

He grimaces. “I was wondering, actually,” he says, and he notices Tom glancing down to the silver ring glinting on his middle finger, averting his eyes when Nico taps it on the bar. (There is nothing he is worth other than silver and the holy blood that runs through his veins, staining his destiny and ichor and red), “if I can send a letter,  _ Mr. _ ”

Tom shows his teeth in an awkward smile. “Sure I- that'll be...I'll have to check.”

Nico frowns, bottom lip worried between his teeth. “ _ Oh, _ ” he breathes, “Do you know anywhere that's hiring around here? I, erm, just moved from America and I- I don't have any money.” 

Shifting from foot to foot, Nico looks up through a curtain of hair and meets Tom's dark eyes. “Well,” he starts. “I  _ suppose  _ you could do some things for me- nothing- just a bit of cleaning here and there maybe if you…”

“Oh,  _ thank _ you!” Nico smiles and stands up straight.

“Where are your parents, boy- don't want them worrying, do we?”

Nico scuffs his feet on the dirty floor. “Oh, erm, they died a while back, so my aunt was homeschooling me. She became too ill to care for me any longer, so she helped to England and...” (He is nothing but silver and blood, a liar with golden blood and wealth in his veins). 

Tom’s eyes burn onto his neck, and he hears him shuffle awkwardly. “Tell you what, don’t worry about the letter, I'll get it covered. Go to the top floor, there’s some owls and parchment and quills. Come see me afterwards for work, but just be...careful- some of them are a bit-”

“Thank you!” Nico curls his lips into a smile. He turns away, and the floorboards creak underneath his weight when he walks away. (He is worth nothing other than-)

-

The owls are afraid of the death that lingers around him, clinging to his skin and dark eyes. (It's the danger that makes others anxious when he buries his resentment in his bones, leaking out from the scars that tear his skin apart). He smells of death; they can smell it too!

Exhaustion rests heavy on his spine, tired from shitty nights and running, too afraid of what his father has given him to embrace it like he knows he knows he should. (His destiny is stained in ichor and blood).

(He is a son of Hades and a son of Hades shouldn't be afraid of the dark)! 

The owls are afraid and he can feel their amber eyes on him when he writes his letter with elegant script, wide and wary as if expecting him to curl his dirty dirty hands around their throats. 

He meets their stares with dark dark eyes. (His fate is sealed with blood). 

The letter is simple and built on his tragic past and dark ink. The owls are afraid and it takes awhile for him to attach it to the leg of the largest own that seems the least afraid, with black feathers flecked with gold. 

It's eyes are like wildfire- dangerous and untameable, raging fires and smouldering embers that fade into black coal and thick smoke. It is dangerous and uncontrollable and it meets his state with burning eyes he wants to capture with paint. (It's eyes are dark and red and his blood is tainted with divinity). 

“Thanks,” he says as it disappears into the dark sky, fingers threading through his hair and he descends down the stairs to the pub. 

The air is damp, sticking to his skin like the jacket does his arms. He passes old doors and creaking floorboards, and he absentmindedly swipes his finger over the dust that has settled on the banister. Tom's waiting for him when he reaches the bar. 

“You done?” He asks, and Nico can imagine his gravelly voice scratching the back of his throat the way it scratches his skin. He knows to keep his mouth shut. 

“Yeah.”

“'Been thinking,” Tom says, and Nico bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood. “In exchange for a bit 'a cleaning here and there and a few odd jobs, I'll let you stay in a spare room 'til Hogwarts starts.”

Nico raises his eyebrows in genuine surprise, all too prepared to sleep underneath of bench or break into an empty house. He rests his hands on the counter and notices Tom's daring eyes on his ring, and he slides it forward a little more, almost challenging him to  _ try. _

There is a glint in Nico's dark eyes of bright, artificial lights like a hospital when the outside world is dark, the strange melancholy of knowing there is both life and death lingering in the air. 

“That's great! Thank you.” 

The moment is gone. Tom’s eyes are back to his face and his own are dark and endless. 

(There is nothing he is worth other than silver and the holy blood that runs through his veins, staining his destiny and ichor and red).

-

He is a stranger here, roaming the dark streets alone, trying to ignore the unease that prickles his neck, lit only by the soft orange of the streetlights. His hands are in his pockets and eyes ahead. (He didn't want to be here after dark)!

A woman with platinum hair walks with a boy of the same shining hair, shoulders back and help with purpose. Even with the distance he can hear them speaking with strong, posh Englsih accents as it rings through his ears. 

“-and then  _ I  _ said, ‘It's a shame, isn't it, about the money you owe’, and her poor face was as red as her hair.” She laughs and it scrapes down his bones, cold and metallic through her perfectly glossed lips.

“Very exciting, mother,” the boy says, disinterested, although Nico figures his mother's cares more about hearing herself speak that having others listening. 

Nico quickens his steps until he is only a few metres behind her, almost entirely sunken in shadows. Spilling from her snakeskin handbag, a little purse of golden coins gleams in the light. (She shouldn't be here after dark)!

He has nimble fingers, slender and quick, and she won't notice if he's fast enough. Stretches his fingers and reaches to her bag, oblivious to everything except her own polished voice and platinum hair.

She has rings on her fingers worth more himself. She won't notice a thing.

He takes his chance, and his fingers curl around her purse and pulls gently, holding his breath. Bag cold against his fingers, he runs, footsteps echoing through the streets. 

(She shouldn't have been here after dark)! 

-

When he steps into the Leaky Cauldron, there is adrenaline coursing through his blood, though his face remains as placid as ever. Tom's waiting, a letter held between his thick fingers. He takes a seat by the bar.

“This is for you, I think,” Tom says. 

Nico takes the letter from his fingers and his fingertips brush over the wax seal on the back, scarlet and authentic. 

“What makes you say that?” He mutters under his breath, staring down at his name written in perfect, cursive golden letters on the front, a small smile dancing on his lips. 

“Thank you, sir,” he says, and his finger breaks the scarlet wax seal.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. ii. everytime i close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's his fault it's his fault its-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from lana del rey's 'dark paradise'

CHAPTER TWO

He wears his dark aesthetic like a second skin, a leather jacket and ripped jeans, black boots tapping against the wooden floor. There is a fire burning in his eyes, dark sparks and suffocating smoke and flames far from the smouldering embers in the antique fireplace. (There is something akin to challenge running through his veins and adrenaline thriving in his blood).

His slender fingers tap against the table, bruised knuckles contrasting to his pale skin, and fingernails digging into the wood. In his other hand, a steaming mug of black coffee almost burns his hand, irritating his skin, but pleasantly. He doesn't want to let go. 

“So,” he says, if only to unsettle the heavy silence between him and the strange, aged man sat opposite him, donning unusual midnight coloured robes and a matching hat. 

It was one of the first things he noticed, when he stepped past the strange brick wall into a cobblestone street, almost as if he has stepped back into a previous British era of flickering lanterns and houses of stone, flowing robes and aristocratic speak. Curiosity bubbles underneath his skin and he scans over the cafe where  _ he  _ looks out of place. 

The conversation and light outside is dwindling, the shadows and the silence growing, stagnant between him and his adrenaline and the wizard with his silver beard. The coffee and words left to be said are little and Nico begins to feel increasingly awkward, though the man opposite doesn't seem to notice. 

His startling blue eyes rest on Nico's face, as if searching for lies hidden within his features. Uncomfortable, he keeps his face and emotions steady, focusing on the coffee burning his throat to distance himself from the cold that dances across his skin. 

"So,” the man agrees, and his voice is low and haunting in the way it would echo through an empty church. “I sympathize with your current situation, and while it is rather sudden, I think enrolling you into Hogwarts would be fulfilling and the safest option, unless you would rather attend Ilvermorny in America, of course.”

Nico stares at the steam rising from his scalding mug. “My aunt used to say Hogwarts is the best school, Mr Dumbledore, and that you’re the greatest wizard,” he says, and glances up to see Dumbledore’s electric eyes on him.

“I’m sorry to hear about your loss, Mr. di Angelo. Would she be familiar?” He asks, something in his voice that crawls up Nico's throat, and he keeps his feet on the ground to keep himself from losing the footing of his lies. 

“We lived in America, Mr, but her name was Valerie di Angelo.” He meets Dumbledore's gaze with big dark eyes and manufactured melancholy in his words. “Do you recognize it.” He tilts his head and leans forward, and there is something Nico can't place that flicker across Dumbledore's face, something about the way his blue blue eyes crinkle and his composure folds inwards. (There is challenge running through his veins and something akin to-) 

“I'm afraid I don't,” Dumbledore replies, the glint in his eyes renewed, composure as strong and steely as ever. Nico purses his lips and leans backwards, still not letting go of the coffee. (He's not sure if he can). 

“Oh,'' he says, and everything is how it still again, the tension being replaced by the sickly sweet sense of a mutual curiosity and mistrust. “You are far too kind, Mr. Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore chuckles, maybe with humour, maybe without, but his piercing eyes stay on Nico’s as he produces a letter from a pocket in his midnight blue robes, sealed by a scarlet wax seal, cursive, golden writing on the front. (Something akin to adrenaline rushes through his-)

“Inside,” he says in that low echoing voice, sliding the envelope across the table, “Is a list of supplies you will need, and… as you mentioned you have no money...” he reaches into his pocket and slides a bag eerily similar to the one hidden in Nico's jacket across the table. “This should cover all the supplies you need, and a little extra for your own use.” Sympathy gleams in his eyes, gentle in a way he's not sure why.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Dumbledore. Thank you for everything you are doing for me; it means a lot, thank you,” he says, dragging his thumb under the scarlet seal with a satisfactory tear. “My aunt would be ever so thankful.” 

Dumbledore smiles, gentle, sympathetic. “It's hard to lose someone you love, Mr. di Angelo.” He glances at his watch. “But I mustn't be keeping you. It's getting rather late, isn't it?” 

He stands and exits the café in a swirl of midnight blue. (There is adrenaline in his bones). 

-

“Nico, boy, you’ve done well.” Tom's scratchy voice rings through his ears, and he looks up from where he was cleaning the floor as if that will rid it from the blood that stains it. “This place look better already!” 

Tom smiles a toothless grin and pushes a few golden galleons towards Nico, which he takes with a small smile and slips into his pocket, fingers brushing over the purse he stole and the one he was given. “Happy to help,” he replies. “And thank you, by the way, for letting me stay here.”

He barely hears Tom’s reply from the thudding pain in his head, eyelids weighing heavily against his cheekbones.

“Night, Tom,” he mumbles, barely audible, as he begins to climb the stairs to the room he’s been granted. 

It’s fairly big, with a double bed in the centre, a large wardrobe to the left and a desk to the right. Crimson curtains swing in front of the window, a calming motion, like the rocking of a boat on gentle seas. The pads on his fingertips rub along the dusty surfaces, and his dark dark trail over the sheets that look as though they haven't been touched in years. He can't complain, and falls asleep with fingernails digging into his palms.

  
  


x-x

  
  
  


He dreams on Bianca. She is young and there is a smile on her face, dark hair braided and eyes youthful and she is  _ smiling  _ at him she is  _ here _ ! He dreams of Bianca, but suddenly she is not smiling and the moonlight paints her face in silver. She wears a silver parka and there is ice in her eyes, lips twisted into a scowl and she's screaming- she's  _ screaming at him _ and he  _ can't breathe _ he's going to die!! 

There is blood on his lips, thick and metallic, and his fingers shake and he can feel Bianca's accusing eyes on his skin. (He's going to die too)!! She spits words like venom onto his burning face and he can taste blood and she is raking her fingernails down his skin, breaking his ribs to she can take out his heart once more. (He is going to die too)!! Fingers shaking and eyes on his skin, lips bleeding and his heart on the floor.

He wants to scream. He wants to scream until his throat is bloody and raw and he can't feel anything at all, when death comes with his sweet embrace and he will finally be dead too!! Bianca is drowning in the silver that runs through her veins and screaming with the venom that chokes her. 

Presses his hands to his ears and  _ screams _ . He  _ screams  _ he screams he screams until he falls apart and there's nothing left of him to salvage. There is nothing left of him!! Finally he is dead too!!

There is nothing left of him and there is an imbalance between light and dark, between blinding sun and sickly blood, and Nico suddenly feels as if he isn't really here at all. Maybe he's finally dead too!!

  
  


-

His heart aches and it is not unfamiliar. He felt the same when Percy fucking Jackson told him his sister was dead from sacrificing herself for Percy fucking Jackson, the last person he  _ loved _ gone as though her life was nothing more than an expendable means of-

His heart aches and it is not unfamiliar. Jason Grace had once told him he's the one pushing people away as though there isn't this blood on his hands that makes his bones tremor, this blood that he's so so scared of touching others with. He tells him to  _ try  _ and he remembers sitting on the mast of a ship doomed for death and wondering what would happen if he jumped. (He doesn't understand! The perfect, golden son of Jupiter does not understand him)! 

He remembers when Will Solace told him the same but with harsher words and sky blue eyes. (It's his fault he's sick it's his fault he's sick it's his fault he's it's his fault it's his-) 

It's his fault he's sick and he's going to die too!!

-

He doesn't remember dragging himself out of bed, but he kinda remembers slipping on his boots and his half-assed attempt at fixing his hair. He doesn't remember shoving his money in his leather pocket but he kinda remembers the feeling of his knife against his fingertips. 

“You okay,” says Tom, when his footsteps creak on the old floor, (even though he doesn't remember getting there, but he kinda remembers the dust on the banister) “You look tired,” he continues, and Nico bites back a scathing remark and instead says “didn't sleep much,” in a voice that sounds too tired to be argued with. Tom doesn't say much else, but Nico hears his mumble something about a potion to look out for if he gets the chance. He doesn't ask. Tom doesn't answer.

-

After he follows a ginger-haired man through the strange brick wall, he finds himself on the streets of Diagon Alley, leather boots contrasting to the pale stone underfoot. He glances down at the list held in his nimble fingers. 

_ Wand. Ollivanders. _

The letters are a little jumbled and blurred, but he manages to decipher what they say after a minute of frowning and scowling, hidden under an empty stall with an aging, empty table. Dark dark eyes flick upwards, and leather soles slap against the stone, fingers curling around the paper. 

The wizards look at him a little strangely, which he finds slightly amusing because they are the ones with the pointed hats and flowing robes, and in any normal street all eyes would be on them, but here, feeling as though he has stepped back in time, he feels eyes on his skin and his fingers shake a little, and he bites his lips a little so hard so they become a little bloody. 

But he keeps his dark dark eyes forward, and ignores the burning on his skin. 

-

Eventually, he finds the shop with faded golden writing that he can vaguely make out as  _ Ollivander's.  _ It's dark and dingy and looks like not much at all, but he steps through the threshold anyway, and tries to ignore the suffocating feeling of claustrophobia creeping up his neck. 

His eyes trail over the old, weathered boxes piled like a labyrinth and a single desk stands, shadowed by the masses of boxes looming over it, with chipped wood and splintered edges. The owner is nowhere to be seen. Nico stands with a placid expression as he fights the unease on his skin. 

He taps his feet, swiping the dust from one of the nearby boxes and tilting the lid up a little, to see the polished wood of an intricately carved wand resting on white cushion. The silence is almost suffocating, and he shifts from foot to foot, debating whether or not to leave and maybe return later. 

He hand is hovering above the door handle when a voice startles him. 

“Oh, goodness, a customer,” it says, and Nico spins around and tries to compose his features. “Sorry, didn't hear you come in.” 

He's old, Nico notices first, with grey, wispy hair and wrinkles etched into his skin. His black robes hand a little too loosely over his frame and it reminds him hauntingly of himself. Not so much now, he supposes, so he guesses that it's alright. 

But, definitely, when he was younger, when his cheeks were sunken from malnutrition and eyes as empty as the space where his heart should've been, and there were scars fresh over his skin and- 

Quickly, he tries to mask his surprise by slipping a small smile onto his lips and inclining his chin a little. “Its okay,” he says, as the strange man distracts himself by shuffling the stacked boxes around. His eyes glint a little in the candle light. “I’m here for a wand…obviously.” 

The man chuckles, and it's a strange sound, as though it is warm and comforting but at the same time making the room drop in degrees, loosening his throat from anxiety but also tying a noose around his neck.

“I can't seem to remember selling you your first.” His curious eyes study Nico’s face maybe a little too long. Maybe not. “But then again, my memory isn’t as good as it used to be.” His fingers trace along a dusty box hidden away under his desk. 

“Try this,” he says in that warming, but chilling tone, and he slides the lid from the box and hands the wand to Nico. It's been carved into little swirls that vaguely reminds Nico if the ocean. 

It's cold underneath his touch. 

“Go on then, give it a wave.” Ollivander’s eyes are watching him intently, narrowed just slightly, as if trying to depict his future from his miniscule movements. Maybe trying too hard. Maybe not. 

He feels foolish, when he lifts the wand and gives it a little flick from his wrist. Nothing happens, and Ollivander lunges forward and almost rips it from his hand, muttering under his breath. Nico scuffs his feet a little awkwardly. 

“Try this,” Ollivander says, and there’s a trace of something that sounds like excitement dripping from his words. Nico tries again. Nothing happens. 

  
  


The discarded boxes and his anxiety grows. 

“I don't know, sir,” he says, and he doesn't really remember Ollivander handing him another wand but he kinda remembers it getting ripped from his hands. “Maybe I should try somewhere else or something.” 

At his words, Ollivander stares at him incredulously. “No no no, you’re just a curious wizard, and you’re wand will be too.” Nico doesn't ask. Ollivander doesn't answer.

-

Eventually, they find a wand, after half-an-hour or an hour (his eyes are dark and his bones aching. He feels so old). It's made from a dark wood, and the intricate patterns remind him of curling feathers and smoke, of burning coals and piercing eyes on his skin. Like the rest, it is cold under his touch, but a different cold. Colder, almost, but with a dark power seeping into his body like blood stains his skin. 

His lips are a little bloody, from biting them a little too hard.

Ollivander's eyes are different, too, excitement glittering in his irises, anticipation glowing in his pupils, and they are fixed on Nico, unblinking. Unseeing, maybe. Maybe not. 

His own dark dark eyes stay on his fingers (that shake a little, but won't admit) as he waves the wand and feels more of that same power in his blood and in his skin, creeping up his back and treading over his thoughts. His kinda remembers Ollivander humming in response, but doesn't remember much else, of course. 

“Excellent!” He says, a little too loudly and Nico's ears ring slightly. “Excellent. Very good, very good!” Nico's arm rests by his side. 

Ollivander hums as he collects the box, which is like the rest, brown and weathered, but maybe just a little more faded, a little more aged. Nico slides eight galleons across the desk as Ollivander cushions the wand inside of the box, and the little bell above the door rings in his ears when he pushes open the door and steps into the last-era streets. 

(It doesn't matter to him that Ollivander never said what it was made from). 

The cold bites at his skin, and his wand is left unknown, and he, unknowing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked this chapter. i love any feedback!


	3. iii. im not in the swing of things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> draco malfoy is made from glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title form lorde's: still sane

iii. 

The weight of the the night rests on the shoulders of the few lanterns that dimly illuminate the narrow alleyway. They flicker a little, as though they are a tangible life force reflecting from the flames trapped within the glass, shedding light on the weathered, mossy stones and glinting eyes that follow each of his steps. 

Nico doesn't really remember stepping into the darker streets, but by now the exhaustion is crashing in waves so he decides to blame it on that. He rubs his eyes, squinting and trying to keep the dizziness from his head and the dark spots from his eyes. 

There are eyes on his skin as he passes a lady with shimmering hair and flawless, dark skin, captivating eyes flitting to meet his; batted eyelashes; puckered lips. She says something, and he can vaguely remember the sweetness of her voice, as though it has been spoken with sugar on her tongue and honey on her lips. He takes no notice, and doesn't stay to see the surprise on her bewitching features. 

Murmurs trap under his footsteps. The alleyways and his thoughts stray. Distantly, he wonders what camp is like now, after the fires have died and the smoke has curled into the sky and out of sight. He wonders if Hazel misses him, or wonders about him. Probably. Probably not. (He wonders if she thinks about him at all).

There is a clatter of glass that cuts through his thoughts, partly, but not all the way, so he doesn't really remember when he crouches down to pick up a little glass bottle that has rolled next to his feet. The rips is his jeans widen. (Does she think about him at all)?

“Sorry,” he mutters, when he realises he’s been trying to read the little writing on the bottle for far too long and the world around him has become this buzz that waxes and wanes as the tides do, a gentle lulling of his attention and- 

-a blur; but not a blur; as though it is not there at all. He stands and glances up. (Exhaustion rests heavy in his heart). 

“S’okay,” a woman replies, and the little creases from smiling a little too much deepen in the dim light. “Here, you look tired, try this.” Her aged palm opens and Nico looks at it for a moment, suddenly transfixed on the little vile of silver liquid against her skin. “It’ll help you sleep.’ 

Her grey eyes meet Nico’s and sparkle like the silver liquid in the vile. Taking a deep breath, he runs a hand through his hair and scoffs. “Will it?” He says, because he’s pretty fucking done with people trying to trick him. “I'm not buying anything from you.” 

There is a fleeting moment where he sees her jaw clench and fingers curl, and he meets her silver gaze with his own and breathes out his exhaustion. 

She looks away and closes her fist, the little vile enclosed with her thick fingers. “Such little trust.” She tilts her head and her long, black hair spills down her side like an onyx waterfall, pale skin glimmering like silver glass and glitter in the depth of her eyes. 

His fingers shake as the woman turns with the vials in her fists and a worn leather bag over her shoulder, he standing there as fatigue swims in his eyes and bruises. (He barely notices when his tongue speaks in a language he doesn't understand, “wait,” and she turns with a small smile playing on her lips. Maybe he isn't here after all). 

“I have this,” he mutters, fingers shaking a little when he dangles a silver necklace he found in the rich woman with the platinum hair’s purse. “Just, swear that it is…” he adds a second later, and then again he adds, “on the river Styx.” 

For a dragging second the woman looks as though she will refuse and anxiety spikes in Nico’s heart, as a frown creases her dark brows. “I swear-” she says, grey eyes caught on the silver necklace, the glinting metal almost reflecting in her eyes, “-that this is not a trick, nor will it cause you harm, and the intention is to only help you sleep-” (because God knows you need it, she doesn't say, but Nico can almost hear it on her tongue), “-and I swear it will cause you no pain nor harm. But don't drink the whole vile at once, then it will.” 

“On the river Styx?” 

“I swear it on the river Styx,” she says, a little confused, but she doesn't comment and Nico drapes the necklace over her hand and she uncurls her fist again. Thunder rumbles overhead (he doesn't hear it). Immediately, the silver liquid seems to trap the moonlight into the glass, and it is icy cold against his skin when the woman drops it into his palm. “Pleasure doing business with you,” says says, almost a whisper. 

Nico nods and watches her disappear into the darkness, cold vial held in his clenched fist. (He wonders if she thinks about him at all). 

  
  


-

  
  


He escapes from the alleyways eventually, and the warm glow of the lanterns cast long shadows from his figure. Cold breath clouds in the air. The shop’s are dark and empty, save for the familiar light spilling from the windows of the Leaky Cauldron, and a spotted cat scuttles from his sight. 

His bag aches his shoulder from all the new school supplies he bought with the money Dumbledore gave him, with the other, Slightly Less Legally Obtained money shoved in his jacket pocket (and the little that Tom’s given him that he almost wants to return because he feels liquid guilt running down his throat when he lies to him, which is stupid (but when is he not)!?). The spines of the books press uncomfortably against his own.

When he pushes open the bar door and slips inside, Tom frowns at him a little, but before he can comment he almost runs to his room and slides off his boots and jeans and jacket. The silver liquid is almost clear in the artificial light but still as chilling as it was back in the alleyways. 

He pauses and holds his future in his fists, questioning whether or not he is going to trust this strange liquid that he can't seem to look away from. (It glints in the light and his fingertips dance over the glass that seems so brittle it will break). 

_ Yes!  _ (What does he have to lose)?! He lets a little drip onto his tongue, and it's as cold against his tongue as it was against his palm, ice against his throat but fire against his lips, leaving behind a small trace of silver that's only visible in the bright, artificial lights. 

The room settles into darkness and he stares up at the ceiling, a hollowness in his ribs. (He doesn't dream that night. He wonders if-)

-

There is an unfamiliarity that settles in the air when he wakes by the morning sunlight spilling through the curtains, breathing and pulse steady and he can taste surprise on his tongue. (He can't remember when he last slept like this- he tries not to dwell on it too long). 

He showers and slips on his boots in a haze of lightheadedness so thick he can hold it, as though there is nothing to keep him tied down down onto the earth and the whole world is this kind of buzz- this blur this-

(Maybe he's not here at all).

  
  


-

  
  


At some point, his senses become painfully acute and Tom's scratchy voice rings through his ears. (The world is this kind of buzz- this kind of blur as if he isn't really here at all. He isn't here at-)

  
  


He wipes a damp cloth over the tables, slipping further into his oblivious, thick stupor, torn between noticing the footsteps behind him and not. 

. 

“Excuse me,” says a voice that he barely notices, (because the world is this weird buzz around him that he can't really focus on), but he turns around and tries not to raise his brows at the platinum haired boy whose nose is curled up in a pretentious arrogance. 

Nico meets his steely eyes. “Can I help you?” He aks, and Nico notices the way the boys fingers knot themselves behind his back, the way his skin leaks with a perfected bravado. 

“Are you almost done with this? I would rather not stay in this-” He gestures to the pub with an airy hand, “-place any longer than I must. I, unlike you, obviously, have a reputation to keep.” 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Nico shoots back, and averts his eyes to the empty seat. “But please, don't let my lower-class self deter you from your awfully important sitting, your highness.” He grabs the cloth and gives the table one last wipe before bowing a little, the blond’s eyes burning into his neck. 

The boy huffs a little and sits on the edge of the seat. “I should hope so,” he says, then, after a second of hesitation. “My name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” 

(The world is this weird kind of buzz around him that is like a blur but at the same not really at all, and he says, “Nico di Angelo, nice to meet you,” with his fingers shaking in the cloth).

  
  


-

  
  


(Draco Malfoy is made from glass- a perfect sculpture of a flamboyant wealth, an artifact to be preserved in time and displayed only to awed eyes that long for the power and wealth that seeps from his cracks.

But glass shatters. (He's falling apart)!! It cracks it chips it breaks, and there is a flurry of barely contained emotions twisting into his features that he manages to control too late. (The world has seen who he is)! 

The world has already seen what is behind the mask of glass he wears as armour, protecting a face of shattered windows and cracked mirrors, defaced by scratches of loneliness and cruel splinters of longing. 

Draco Malfoy is made from glass but glass shatters and it cracks it breaks. (He's falling apart)!) 

-

  
  


“Nico di Angelo, nice to meet you,” Nico says, not bothering to offer a hand because he knows Draco Malfoy won't take it (Draco Malfoy won't touch a stranger's skin when they have ripped jeans and hollow eyes, a silver ring on their middle finger, too afraid that the meeting hand will crush his hands of glass). 

Instead, Nico di Angelo steps away and let's Draco swing his legs over a chair and let a little snarl of authority settle on his lips. “My mother is meeting me here in five minutes, so please, hurry and get her a glass of white wine.” 

“Sure.” 

As he walks to the counter, his footsteps echo at the same rhythm of the blood in his ears. Tom’s far too busy talking animatedly to a woman with a badge glinting on her chest to notice Nico as he slips past him to the back stores. (He is up to no good)!

Only Tom's is supposed to be here, he knows, but Draco's Malfoy's glass eyes burn into his mind and he grabs a glass and a bottle. He is not supposed to be here (he is up to no good)!

He doesn't hurry to pour the drink, feeling Malfoy's eyes on his skin when he pours with precision and slides the bottle next to the others. The table wobbles when he sets the glass on it, but Draco doesn't comment, and neither does he. 

  
  


“What house are you in?” Draco says after a long silence, and he tries to hide the stumble on his words with a cough. (Draco Malfoy is-)

  
  


At first, Nico doesn't understand what he's asking and let's his eyes focus a little more on Malfoy's glass eyes, but after a moment of hesitation realises he's referring to the Hogwarts houses (after reading through a few books about the wizarding world for the last couple of nights) and shakes his head. 

“I don't go to Hogwarts,” he says, then adds, “yet,” after a pause to study Malfoy's face; he raises a brow. 

Curiosity bubbles under Malfoy's tongue, but he manages to swallow it before he vomits his regret onto the table. “Then what house do you think you will be in?”

  
  


“Slytherin, I think, from what I've read.” 

Malfoy smiles, pale lips curving upwards and he narrows his eyes at Nico, something sparking in his scrutiny that wasn't there before. “The best house,” Malfoy quips, and the silver in his hair glints in the sunlight and the green on his scarf blends with his dark robes. “You’ll make your real friends there.” 

Nico nods, and opens his mouth to reply but Draco hastily cuts him off with a declaration of “mother,” and the woman with the platinum hair saunters through the door, the same snakeskin handbag that he pickpocketed from resting on the inside of her elbow. She greets Draco with a tight smile. 

“Draco dear, who is this?” She asks, after taking a seat and changing her icy features into something vaguely sweet and regarding. 

Nico stares back with his dark dark eyes on her silver irises. “Nico di Angelo, ma’am,” he says, and again he doesn't extend a hand because she is far too alike her glass son to shake the hand of a stranger with ripped jeans and hollow eyes, a silver ring on their middle finger. Instead, he settles with a placid expression of eyes of fake interest. 

Predictably, she ignores him, and turns back to her son with that same icy expression that can't stray from her face for too long. “Draco, we must be going. We are meeting your father soon before Hogwarts, tomorrow.”

Their chairs scrape across the floor when they stand, and the clicking of the woman's heels vibrate through his feet. She leaves the wine untouched on the table. 

(Nico swallows it like the liquid guilt it is. Here's to-)

-

It's August the 31st, Nico realises with a jolt that brings his heart to his throat. Tomorrow, he will board a train of wizards with a tragic backstory and daggers wrapped in mist, bomber jacket traded for flowing robes as he is in a fucking mediaeval movie. 

Tomorrow, the real challenge will begin and hopefully after all he has read and all he has practiced with that unknown wand he keeps in his jacket pocket, he can fool the man at the head of the game and the leader of this supposed rebellion rippling through Britain. Dumbledore. 

He is tangled in sheets and pillows with an almost empty canister resting in his palm. The silver liquid reflects in the broken shards of moonlight spilling through his curtains, and his fingers and thoughts mull over the shimmering liquid. 

His dreams are as empty as the canister on his bedside table.

(He's up to no good). 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love any feedback!!


	4. a stinging sense of nostalgia (all eyes on you).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico boards the train to Hogwarts, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologise for the super long wait, and that this chapter is really really really really bad and ugly. this is a rewrite, but even so my later chapters that i have written more recently are going to be 100× better than these, so im sorry for these chapters.  
also!! an OC appears in this chapter, HOWEVER, i doubt they will have a big part in this story and only be mentioned, because i kinda hate OCs and im p sure most people here do, also?   
anyways, sorry for the wait and quality, but please enjoy :)

There is a ringing, a stinging sense of nostalgia as Nico's gaze flitters over the weeping parents and ecstatic children, drowning out the constant voices and footsteps into a sense of just  _ ringing _ , as though no other sounds exists except this, nothing else inciting enough to demand his attention. 

His dark hair falls over his eyes and deepens the shadows cast by his cheekbones, fluttering in the wind as it breezes across his face. A boy, stood a few feet from him, raises his eyebrows at Nico's trunk and backpack, but doesn't comment, auburn hair reminding him of a pretty boy he used to know im Italy- before the war, before he disappeared into a train and dusty tracks with a star on his arm. Nostalgia crawls its way down his throat with yearning claws and settles in his stomach. 

Nico tears his eyes away, and he does the same, looking back to where his friends stand with forgettable faces swept away into the moment. He brushes past them, and there is a ringing and sense of nostalgia when his gaze flickers to the brick wall his dark eyes bore into. His hands are shaking. 

(But that's not important).

  
  


Somewhere a clock chimes, overwhelming the ringing for a second and holding him by the throat, as Nico turns at the muted sound of footsteps against the floor. A dog bounds up to him, fur dark and shaggy, eyes dark and curious, large paws padding the ground and pink tongue spilling from its mouth. 

“Hey” Nico says, almost as a whisper, because he doesn’t want to scare the poor dog when it hasn't shrunk away from him like most animals do. He runs his pale, slender fingers through the dog's fur and around its ear, and it barks appreciatively and wiggles closer still. It's dark eyes flit to meet his. 

Another voice joins the white noise of both nothing and everything, and says, “Snuffles,” with a little laugh and a boy with hair as dark and messy as his own and startling, emerald eyes focuses into view. Nico unthreads his fingers from the dogs fur and blinks a few times as Harry Potter runs towards him, followed closely by a red-headed boy that reminds Nico of the man who used to own the comic book store in Venice, and a girl with bushy hair and wide eyes. 

With its tail wagging feverishly, the dog rolls onto its back and Nico bends down to thread his fingers through its fur again, and the ringing and voices and footsteps is joined by panting and laughing. “I like your dog,” he says, as the trio approach him with their eyes on his leather and silver ring. 

After a little silence that Nico tries to ignore, Harry Potter comments, “his name's Snuffles,” and Snuffles jumps towards him with a thud like a beat to the rhythm of the ringing. “I think he likes you too,” he adds a second later, maybe to dismiss the stagnant silence settling between them. 

“You’re wizards, aren't you?” Nico asks, even though there is still this ringing and he has to concentrate to hear the reply of “yes, and you are too, I’m guessing,” from the brown-eyed girl with the curly hair. 

He scuffs his feet, fighting the nausea in his throat that has settled there since he awoke and bid Tom farewell, the ringing pressing onto his shoulder blades and making him itch to run run run away. “Yeah, I’m exchanging from America, actually, but I don't- don't really know how to get to the platform.” 

The dog is still on its back, but it's still and quiet and something about them dark eyes on his skin seems strange, and the more he concentrates past the ringing the more he feels the dog's life flicker and change, as though it is there, but ever changing, ever present. He tightens his grip on his trunk and anxiety and let's a shy smile slip onto his lips. He vaguely hears the girl say something about not knowing that Hogwarts accepts exchanges.

“You’re Harry Potter, aren't you?” He asks. They look at him a little awkwardly, as if debating what to say in an unspoken argument between them. He rushes on. “Sorry,” he says, “it's just-” He shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.”

“You don't think I'm a liar?”

“Everyone's a liar.”

There is a ringing, a stinging sense of nostalgia as Nico’s gaze flitters over Harry’s piercing eyes which look at him which a swirling mixture of confusion and wariness in those irises, drowning out the voices and footsteps into a sense of just, ringing. His brows crease a little, and he glances behind at his trunk and back, tongue running over his teeth for a second.

“I have no idea what I'm doing.”

The ginger snorts again and then outstretches a pale, freckled hand. “Ron Weasley,” he announces and Nico shakes his hand and tries to ignore the tension in his own arms and the cold feeling on his skin like his is being stabbed by poisoned needles and the almost overwhelming desire to run away from social interaction and lose himself in this ringing ringing  _ ringing _ . (But he shakes Ron's hand, and fights the nausea stuck in his throat like a jagged fish bone). 

“Nico di Angelo,” Nico replies, and maybe he pulls his hand away a little too quick but no one seems to notice and he tilts his head to one side just a little. “Nice to meet you.” 

Harry Potter’s eyes stay on his skin. The girl introduces herself with a chaste nod and Ron Weasley points to the wall with a grin playing on his lips and explains what to do.

“After you,” Nico says, when Ron’s grin becomes a little unsettling and Snuffles maybe barks a little too much like a laugh. (Maybe not). There are knives itching his skin, as if to place a feeling to the ringing that reverberates through his body, and as he runs through the barrier, there is a ringing in his ears and eyes on his skin.

  
  
  


Time is different here, he thinks, with his stare on the scarlet train stretching across the tracks. Time is frozen and even though the trio has disappeared into the crowds, Nico can almost feel their impending presence on his bones, their curious eyes on his skin.

  
  


A girl is frozen with one hand on her mouth and her eyes glittering with tears, staining her skin as they trail down her cheeks in rivers of woe. Another girl’s lips are plastered into a smile that makes her teeth glint in the streaking sunlight, and an owl is frozen, mid flight, above her head, wings outstretched as it strains against the collar around it’s slender neck. 

A beautiful scene, serene, bittersweet, a tragedy in three parts, caught between sadness and happiness in a spectrum of emotions that are polar opposites but seem so close together in this frozen frame. 

Then time speeds up again, and the crying girl dips her head away from sight and rubs her eyes, and the other turns away to where her friends are waiting, and life is good, life is  _ good _ . 

  
  


-

  
  


The compartment he finds is empty, which he acknowledges with a sigh of relief and a ghost of a smile brushing his lips. When he sits, he presses the side of his forehead against the cool glass and let's his vision blur a little as he concentrates on nothing but also on everything there is. Even against the coldness of the window, his breath is far too cold to steam it. 

He doesn't really notice the footsteps outside his compartment because his mind is a little too far away and his sense of time feels a little off here, almost similar to when he first stepped into that magic fucking hotel that trapped him for far far too long. 

Time feels different here, he thinks, when a voice jolts his mind from his smoky sense of just, nothing, and he tilts his head further so that his bangs fall over his eyes. “He’s the exchange,” the voice says, and time seems smoky and hazy and then words of “how exciting,” follow and then fall into the indescribable and confusing state of simply time itself. 

He tilts his head from the window, as another voice joins and comments, “I'm gonna go look for her,” and then the first voice replies with, “same,” and Nico bites down on his lips.

-

Time seems altered here, he thinks, when he somehow drifts into a fitful sleep of fractured memories that he can't really process (which he’s grateful for; memories are a tricky thing). His fingers thread together, and his boots scuff against the floor when he feels that familiar itching in his legs. 

  
  


He opens his eyes eventually, and, startling him a little (though he won't admit that), another boy sits across from him with his forehead pressed onto the window like Nico's was just moments before. The boy must have spotted Nico in his distorted reflection in the window, because he lifts his head and greets Nico with a tentative smile he returns just a little bit. 

(He prefers his reflection when it's distorted through the glass, almost rid of the dark bruising around his eyes that somehow never seems to fully go away, and that little scar on his cut jawline fades a little more into his skin). 

“Hey,” the boy says- breathes- and his voice is all sorts of sleepiness and soft breath and Nico feels oddly out of place with all sharp edges and bloody lips. He distantly notices how the boys brown eyes dance in the sunlight a little, flecked with a strange shade of yellow he can't really place, and Nico responds with an almost too quiet, “hi,” and tries not to notice the way he can almost feel his pulse quickening with anxiety. 

He feels his pulse quicken a little but he meets the boy’s almost breathy gaze and tries to stop his fingers shaking from shaking in his lap. “I'm Nico,” he introduces, and there's a kinda uncomfortable relief when the boy seems a little surprised at being spoken too and his words of, “I’m Duncan,” seem maybe a little too fluid and breathy. (Maybe not. Maybe he's imagining things).

“Nice to meet you.”

Nico drops his gaze and twists the skull ring and he hears Duncan click his tongue. “You’re the exchange, aren't you,” he asks, a little held back as though Nico will punch him if he says the wrong words, as though he's a little afraid of him and the world feels as though it is falling apart around him. 

Nico raises a dark brow and glances up. “How did you find out so fast? But yeah.” 

“Word travels fast when there is something exciting,” Duncan says, a grin teasing at his lips and creasing his skin that reminds Nico a little of rich soil and perfect wood. A small smile slips onto his own lips, and he looks at his hands.

(It's strange, really, that Duncan’s bright teeth contrasting aesthetically against his skin can somehow steady his heart beat just a little bit, and the fish bone stuck in his throat doesn't seem so lodged into place).

“Oh okay, that's not intimidating and slightly daunting at all?” Nico replies, and watches closely as the light washes over Duncan's face, dragging his fingernails across his bottom lip. 

He runs his fingers through his thick hair. “How long was I sleeping?” He asks, a little awkwardly, anxiously wondering if he showed the discomfort his felt as he slept. 

Duncan clicks his tongue again. “About an hour, I think.” His voice and eyes trail off from focus, and Nico finds himself noticing how his unblemished hands shift a little and the strange look of nostalgia creeping into his skin. 

“That's all?” He remarks dejectedly, a little bitter, a little disappointed, but Duncan seems relieved for the change in subject so Nico ignores the slight burning in his throat and the blood on his lips. 

“Pfft, it's not  _ that  _ bad- only a few more hundred hours to go!” 

  
  


-

Their conversation dwindles into a comfortable silence that leaves Nico to boredly flick through some of his school books, even though the letters are merging together and it hurts his head a little. He huffs in frustration and half-heartedly throws the book onto the opposite seat. 

Duncan looks up from where he was skimming through an old copy of a book he doesn't try to make out, and raises his eyebrows at Nico. “Well,” he says.

Nico crosses his arms and shoots back, “I’m dyslexic and sad.”

Duncan hums in response. “Oh, my Muggle cousin's dyslexic. Isn't there a spell or something that helps? I swear my mum was talking about it this morning.”

“I don't know, probably?” 

-

  
  


Time tastes altered here, Nico thinks, when time passes between them in an easy silence and the scenery rolling by darkens. Clouds creep over the sky, obscuring the moon a little and blocking the almost mocking lights from the stars splashed across the inky canvas. 

He changed into his robes at some point, but he can't really remember because time is different and time is strange. (But he can remember seeing Duncan's curious eyes on his skin through the distorted reflection in the window where he eyes aren't so dark and endless).

They talk a little bit, and Nico explains the same, tragic, story again, and Duncan looks at him with those strange yellow (almost gold, but not quite) flecked brown eyes swimming with sympathy and understanding. “It's hard to lose someone you love,” he had said, voice breathy as though he's talking in a smoky dream, and Nico had met his flecked eyes with his own dark irises that aren't flecked with anything or have anything just, 'pretty’ about them, and are just, dark. 

In turn, Duncan explains a bit more about Hogwarts and Nico finds it a little strange when he starts leaning forward curiously, dark eyes on the little yellow flecks that stand out even more in their close proximity, warm breath against his own. (He wonders when he started caring so much about this school. He wonders when he started caring at all).

Eventually, the train starts to slow with a scratching sound and a plastered grin, and Nico slings his little bag over his shoulder and meets Duncan's breathy gaze. 

“Well, I guess this is it, for now, Nico,” he says, and his smile widens a little bit when he adds, “but I hope to see you again,” and then leaves Nico stood alone in the compartment with a strange look of nostalgia creeping over his features. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me what you think!!! thank u for reading!!!


	5. oh my god, i feel it in the air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico meets the thestrals- and Neville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT AND THAT THIS CHAPTER IS KINDA REALLY BAD!!!! I KEPT TRYING TO REWRITE IT BUT I COULDN'T SO THIS IS JUST THE ORIGINAL. IF YOU HAVE STAYED THIS LONG, I LOVE YOU

The thestrals are gleaming masses of skeleton bones and black feathers, their dark aura of  _ death _ clinging to them the same way his does himself. They have somber eyes and languid movements, elegant movements, wings fluttering with the gentle breeze of a thousand words in the air. 

Of course, they notice him; their empty white turn to him with their heavy souls resting on his own, dark feather rustling and darkness seeping from their bones into his skin. They are creatures of the Underworld, though gentle and kind in way he's not sure they could ever be, gleaming claws sinking into the ground in the same way they would his flesh if they wanted to. 

Shaking his head, he meets their stares, sending a prayer to an uncaring god that they understand what he's trying to ask, to regard him with an indifference that he's beginning to cherish. It is strange, he thinks, to have his name fall from foreign lips without the sparks of recognition and unease that spikes the lingering pain in his chest. It's strange, but nice, and he can't help but wonder how long he can escape his identity when he's not sure what he is running from. 

He glances around, curious to see if any of the students have noticed the gleaming masses of bones and feather, but of course-  _ of course- _ nobody but him has noticed them, oblivious to the cold creeping up their spine. 

All, he realises, but three. The first, he sees, is a boy maybe his age, hair and skin dark, eyes a little empty, as though he's looking at everything but also nothing really at all. As though he doesn't want to look past his fingers but curiosity is prising them away from his skin.

The boy regards the thestrals with a kinda airy glare, all sad and angry but not trying very hard to concentrate, not really, arms hanging limply by his sides, face a little slack with crawling shadows hanging from his eyes; like a spider's legs tearing through his skin, Nico thinks, features as placid as ever but maybe his eyes glinting with something akin to understanding. 

For a second, before the boy is swept away into the sea of bodies, his hand twitches, like he is wanting to reach out, maybe to the eerie feathers of the creatures, but he pauses, glancing around again as if afraid anyone might see him.

(But they’re far too unobservant and relapsing in their own ignorance to notice him, anyway). 

Eventually, as if against his will, his composure folds in on itself, and his fingertips brush against the chilling feathers. The thestral leans into his touch, surprised by the unexpected contact, white, pupiless eyes fluttering shut. Then his hand and confidence drops, a slight realisation of panic, and he's cast away into the crowds and the thestrals are alone in their solitude and silence, again. Nico see's a flash of platinum hair, sweeping shoulders and extravagant robes, and something shoves roughly into his back and his feet are moving, again, again, again, again.

Now, he can see the carriages that the thestrals stand next too, all old-fashioned and lined in silver and reminding Nico of the carriages his mother used to take him to see. Clouds storm overhead, swirling in grey and white and black, like an old photo, Nico thinks, a little sullenly, like even the sky is screaming: you don't belong in this century (you are running out of time). 

Then, he sees the second, as he slips into the shadows on the wet ground and melts into the darkness, breathing heavily into the cold air, hazy mist trapped in the masses of compact bodies, far too close and far too loud, his fingers a little shaky, bottom lip bitten between his teeth. 

He sees the second, and this time it's a girl, with pale skin and her hair like her eyes: hazy, a little strange, maybe, clouded with theories and memories and symphonies, blossoming in her mind and slipping from her tongue. Her skin is pale, contrasting sharply to the dark feathers wrapped around her fingers as she threads her hand through the wings of a thestral, and to the darkness falling thick and heavy around her. 

She doesn't seem to notice (or maybe she does, and doesn't care), the curious and amused looks on her skin by the throng of students now climbing into elegant carriages, looks plainly judging and their mocking laughter ringing through his ears. 

Glinting in the orange glow cast by the lanterns swinging from the carriages, a blue badge on her robes catches his eyes. Ravenclaw, he guesses, smiling a little when she pets the thestrals one last time and then drifts through the crowds with her head in the clouds and her feet on the ground. His fingernails press into his palms. 

“Can’t...can’t you see them?”

The third, of course–  _ of course _ – is Harry Potter, voice a little higher than usual, startling eyes a little panicked and unhinged, as if he's seeing the world for the very first time, the glass in his glasses seeming to reflect his panic as the dim light hits them. His friend, red hair a blazing fire, frowns at his friend like he is questioning his mental stability. 

“See what?” Ron asks, voice low and quiet and tentative, fingers curling around Harry’s shoulder and shaking it gently. The constellations of freckles across his pale face remind Nico of orange paint splattered against a white canvas, and he vaguely wonders what shape it would make is he connected them all; he vaguely wonders what is wrong with him. 

Harry stumbles over his words, trailing off uncertainty, maybe slightly worried about his own mental stability, too. “Can’t you see what's pulling the carriages?” 

“Are you feeling alright, Harry?” Ron asks, and Nico watches with a trepid anticipation as Harry shakes his head and curls his hands into fists, glancing at Ron with a little fear in his green green eyes. 

“I...uh, yeah.” 

Nico slips past them, a brow raised and his lips a little bloody. His uncurls his fists, and his palms are a little red, too. 

  
  


\--

He sees it, emerging from the mist, a dark mass of fading turrets and black stones and sharp angles, the glow of lights from the gothic windows cutting through the mist like a knife, and his breath catches for a second; his fingers shake for a second; his lips bleed for a second.

There's a lake, all deep waves and swirls, broken by boats and flooding lights dancing across the surface, dark and foreboding like the castle looming over it and casting shadows like ink seeping from the ground and spilling into the sky. Something rests within the depths, churning and thinking and biding its time, as if waiting for the moment to break through the surface and grasp at the night, at the moon and the stars. Churning, thinking, biding its time. (Waiting). 

There's a drone of chatter flooding his senses, but he can’t really hear it over the blood in his ears and the heartbeat in his chest. Suddenly it's all toomuchtoosoontooquick. His dark eyes flicker over the jutting turrets and soft lit windows and the rippling water and- and-

“Are you okay?” The voice breaks his stupor like a brick thrown at one of the glowing, gothic windows complimented by dark stone and a ticking clock. He blinks, light suddenly flooding his eyes, a burning sensation running through his head.

“Yeah,” he lies through clenched teeth, dismissing the worried look of the boy- Neville, he thinks his name is- with a airy wave of his hand. “Just a little, surprised, that’s all,” he mutters, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment of silence. 

“Oh,” Neville offers, but Nico can almost hear the words brewing on his tongue, waiting to be spilled. “You’re the exchange,” he then says, quietly, carefully, as though afraid someone may hear even though they are the only two in the carriage. 

Nico quirks a brow. “That's me,” he replies, a little flat, a little tired, and Neville opens his mouth as if to say more, but closes it after a second of hesitation. His eyes drop from Nico’s skin to his own hands, and it is strange, Nico finds, that it almost burns when there are eyes on him. 

For the rest of the ride, silence settles and becomes stagnant, Nico staring wistfully out of the window at the mist-shrouded castle, Neville shifting a little awkwardly in his seat and stealing glances at Nico when he thinks he isn't watching. 

(But maybe the reflection in the window reminds him a little too much of a mirror, and he's never really liked those). 

“Can you see them?” 

Nico looks away from the window. Neville looks away from his hands. Eyes meet. Lips a little bloody. Skin a little cold. 

“Yeah,” Nico says, after a pregnant pause, quiet, almost as a whisper, but at the same time it’s the loudest thing he can hear. He tilts his head to one side, worrying his bottom lip again, and says, “can you?” as something Nico can't exactly place flashes across Neville's kind face. 

(It's all toomuchtoosoontooquick, still, so he decides to blame it on that). 

“No,” Neville admits, and then looks as though he wants to say something more, but then quickly stops himself before he can, as though reminding himself that this boy sat opposite him with the dark sad eyes is a stranger, and he’s always been told not to talk to strangers. He keeps quiet, a mutual understanding passing between them. “Are you okay?” He asks, for the second time, the same words but sounding so very different as if spoken through different lips.

Nico laughs, bitterly, the sound scratching at his throat. “I'm _fine,_” He shoots back, and there's a ringing sense of nostalgia on his tongue, when Neville looks at him with no humour in those careful features and frowns.

He offers a small, gentle smile, and then Nico is looking out of the window and Neville is looking at his hands. (He thinks maybe he's running out of time).

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading ! please tell me what u think :) (im hoping to get the next chapters posted sooner, as they are written better and will need less alterations)!!


	6. god damn right, you should be scared of me (who is in control)?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set back in camp half-blood, a few years back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im trying to post all these chapters quickly, so i can continue with the story, so im sorry they aren't as good as they could have been :(

His reflection watches him with dark eyes, hopeless eyes, pale skin and bitten lips, a silvery scar on its nose and another on its cheek. It watches him and he watches it, curls his hands into the grass and swallows the dread in his throat, the sky above dark and endless in a way that rouses the moon to shine brighter still. 

It is quiet, and it is dark, falling thick and heavy around him. His jaw aches and he can already see the ugly bruising in his reflection that stares at him with those condemning eyes and alabaster skin, stares at him as the wind dances over his skin with feather touches. 

His reflection is watching him and it is almost the end of August, almost the end of summer, almost the end of this waiting and waiting and waiting for a day he's not even sure will arrive. 

Warm air brushes past him as if it doesn't exist at all, and he closes his eyes and breathes through the humidity. 

There is a bonfire tonight, can see the roaring flames dancing in the sky. He can imagine their voices and their laughter in his aching head, melodies strung together and broken by the crackling of flames and he thinks, maybe, in another lifetime he could be there also, but it is quiet here and he bathes in it, relishes in it, lets it sink into his skin into his blood. 

(There is a bonfire help tonight and if he concentrates hard enough he can imagine he is there too, but it is quiet here and he lives in it, so he doesn't try very hard).

Somewhere amongst the stretching fields, a bird sings. It sings of sadness and blue melancholy, resonates through his fingertips to his bones. He loses himself in the quiet and finds himself in the bird songs and gets swept away into the solidarity of the darkness. 

Tangled around his feet, the dry, dead grass curls around his legs like a hissing snake his mother warned him about, the snakes he would see on the back of leather jackets he stared at. 

The stars overhead pinprick the expense of sheer blackness, and the full moon is so  _ bright _ that it hurts to look at, so he keeps his eyes on the silver ring on his finger that glints like the stars above. His reflection watches him, and he watches the sky. 

Then he hears it, a howling, shrill, of pain and anguish and loathing, anger in its rawest form. Tears apart the silence and a little of himself too, waiting, and wondering which it dreads more: the echo, or the answer. 

He's on his feet in a second, sword drawn in a blur of dark shadows, eyes scanning the dark landscape of rolling fields and the glow of a spiteful fire. It howls again, scratches down his skin with its anger and pain clawing their way into his heart. 

(He has a particular dislike for these wolves maybe to do with the time when his almost iconic avatar jacket was left behind from being far too damaged after the time when a werewolf attacked, maybe to do with the looming fact that the wolves obey the moon, just like how his sister looked at the moon and decided that maybe it is better than her annoying, immature brother. But it doesn't matter because-).

Another howl, of more anger and spitting blood, insatiable hunger, the desire for blood in its veins. 

Another howl. This time of more raw anger and spitting blood and less loathing and pain and more acceptance and hunger and less humanity. But Nico understands, he gets it, they can't control it, and he can't control his legs as they move towards the sound. 

He can almost hear the bonfire from where he stands at the top of Half-blood hill, and he's kinda surprised no one has heard the anguished howls, but then, that would mean acceptance of the different and he knows the campers have never been too good at that. (Maybe he's a little bitter). 

Outstretched, blending with the darkness in the same way his eyes do, his sword seems to drink and absorb the cast light that cuts through the darkness, and it's serrated edge slices through the air as though it has taken the life from that, too. 

His muscles are tense, and his mind is racing, moving faster than his feet but maybe not faster than his eyes, and he's ready, so fucking ready, to feel a familiar rush when his devilish sword cuts through more than just the air. The advantage over a wolf, he thinks, is surprise, because in battle they possess speed and strength and those wicked claws that can tear through his flesh almost as well as his sword can. Not to mention the teeth.

Yellowed, bloody teeth, protruding from bloody gums and itching a bloody tongue, dripping with a venomous saliva that will contaminate his blood with only the smallest of bites, maybe not drawing blood, but drawing a whole new nightmare, instead. 

(He especially doesn't like the teeth, especially after the day in Venice when his mother took him to a dentist that maybe took a little too much joy in watching the tears pool in his eyes when his gums bled a little).

Anyway, he knows to avoid the teeth, and the claws, and the angry, piercing eyes that hold so much hostility and danger that matches the guttural howls- screams- that rip their throats bloody. He knows to avoid the teeth, and he knows surprise is always the best, too. 

He hears it, first, but not in a howl or a growl, but in its padded footsteps that crunch the cracked, autumn leaves underfoot that have fallen from the big oak tree not too far away. Nico doesn't really remember leaving camp bounds, and he knows if anyone finds him now that he probably won't be able to leave in three days, but, the padded footsteps are so dangerously, intoxicatingly, close, that he steps past the bounds and readies his arm a little more. 

Then he hears it again: the same, padded footsteps on the dry leaves that are a depressing shade of murky green, and he slips away into the shadows and maybe into himself a little, too 

(Prince prince prince).

He hears them, just for a second, the ghosts, the lost spirits, the souls, their chant behind his eyes and in his head as black engulfs his body and his mind and his thoughts. (Prince prince prince), the chant, a constant mantra because that is who he is (prince prince prince), a prince, and king of ghosts. They taunt; they laugh; they laugh they mock they taunt, and their words hang in his head and in his mind but what he hears most is their chants (prince prince prince).

Then it's over, and he barely stumbles when the shadows melt away and he catches his first, hazy sight of the wolf. (He’s been practicing, when no one can see him, because as kind as the son of Apollo is he finds it kinda insulting that he's treated like a pity case and a china doll that might shatter at any time).

Then, he sees it fully, it emerges from the darkness and it can smell him, he knows, when it’s grey nose twitches and sniffs the air, lips pulled back over its gums revealing those awful, godforsaken teeth that drip with bitter blood. And he knows to stay away from its teeth. He knows a lot and he knows nothing. It's hair is matted, both with blood and dirt, clumping over it's grey skin like forests over a landscape, the blue veins peeking through like rivers cutting past. It's spine is hunched, it's paws molding into the dry ground and it's dirty claws digging into the crack. 

It can smell him. It can smell death. But it is not afraid.

And he taunts it, he shadow-travels around it and observes the way it's hungry eyes flit from place to place with anger and the tiniest hint of desperation. But not fear. Never fear. They are creatures of the moon. And they are not afraid. 

Its eyes are deadly. Maybe not so as it's teeth, or its claws, but deadly, nonetheless. Deadly in a way that spikes fear and anxiety when it turns its nightmarish eyes on you; it's dark, bloody eyes that hold so so much anger and anger and anger.

For the third time, it howls, and again it is all raw anger and hunger and the noise shocks straight up Nico’s spine and maybe it arrives with a stab of fear (but Nico is a creature of the night, and he is not afraid).

But in the end, he gives up, even though he could do it. He could easily plunge his sword into the creatures neck and it would shatter into dust that gets carried away in the wind, but the night is young, and Nico is, too.

And he's seen too much, given too much, done too much, to be innocent, but there's a little shred of it, conserved in himself, hidden away under lock and key. Of innocence, the morality to not kill without emotion. Because the night is young, and so is Nico, and maybe is the wolf, so he watches with a strange feeling in his chest as the wolf dissolves into darkness. And he decides, with this strange feeling in his chest, that he will do anything to protect that last shred of innocence.

It howls again. The last Nico hears. And maybe, he thinks, there's a little shred of innocence in that, too.

(But he doesn't dwell on the thought too much and shadow-travels back to his cabin before he does).

\--

It has been a better day, Nico realises, when he curls up on his sheets in pulls the black duvet over his head. Fine, he was alone when everybody else was laughing and loving and  _ living _ , but it had been quiet and he has soaked in it, lived in it.

It's been a better day, Nico realises, when he curls into his bed and pulls the black duvet over his chest. Sure, he was alone when everyone else was singing and laughing and connecting, but when he sat atop the hill and when he followed the wolf that followed the moon, he thinks that, maybe, he was a little more connected, too. A little more connected to the humanity in him, the little innocence, the feeling of just, feeling.

It's been a better day. Which he loves and he hates at the same time.

(Because now his bad days will feel even more bad than usual).

His thoughts drift to the wolf, and he vaguely wonders with a second-hand grimace that the wolf is most likely still prowling the night as he lays awake and out of time, it's matted fur almost silver in the moonlight, it's teeth almost hidden in the shadows, almost, almost- never quite, just, almost. 

He wonders how many times it has howled, how many times it let a scream of its own rip through the quiet like Nico wishes he could, sometimes, let all his pain and frustration and sadness melt into the quiet of the night. He wonders. 

The clock on his bedside table reads 1:46 am in green, luminescent letters that he squints at, and it's 1:46 am when he hears the knock on his door. Quiet, almost slurred, he thinks. 

Nico frowns, a little curious, a little surprised, a little anxious. He slides from his bed, pulling on some joggers under the oversized grey shirt he wears to bed, rubbing his eyes and flinching a little at the sound of his heavy footsteps against his wooden floor. 

The shadows are thick, pulling at the corners, pulling at his will, and the little coffee maker set on the dark, marble countertop flashes with a little green light. He can see pretty well in the dark, but his eyes are heavy and his eyesight a little blurred and the sound of another knock rings through his ears almost painfully. And he’s kinda glad it’s dark outside when he opens the door and isn't suddenly blinded with light. (Toobrighttooloudtoosudden). 

But then instead he's met with the familiar blond hair of resident superhero Jason Grace wearing a stupid fucking smile on his stupid fucking wine-stained lips with his stupid fucking blue blue eyes a little unfocused but still on his face. And then suddenly it's toobrighttooloudtoosudden, and Nico di Angelo is staggering past stupid fucking Jason Grace and into the stupid fucking night. 

(Because it's suddenly toobrighttooloudtoosudden, and he doesn't deal with that very well).

\--

“I’m sorry,” Jason fucking Grace apologises, even though Nico’s not really sure why because it is him who panicked and fled and sat feeling like a fucking idiot for the rest of the night. 

So he says, “it's okay,” and hopes Jason fucking Grace understands that he kinda doesn't want to talk about it (but kinda does at the same time).

Three days left, he thinks. Three days to prove that he's in control. (He's not in control).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u enjoyed this mess !!!!!


	7. i feel free when i see noone, and nobody knows my name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nico has a panic attack and gets sorted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the longest chapter yet- and probably one of the worst i DESPISE it, but i really want to start posting the new chapters soon so

The carriage pulls up close to the entrance, wheels squealing and doors creaking open. Neville stands, brushing off his robes, eyes distant and apprehensive.

“You coming?” He asks, offering a small smile.

“Just a minute,” Nico replies through a deep breath, nails in his palms and knuckles turning white. His eyes flit back out of the window, where he sees Hogwarts looming above, encased in moonlight with the dark sky as a backdrop. Neville nods without question (which Nico’s fucking grateful for), and clambers out and Nico's looking out of the window again. 

It is more intimidating when it's shadows are clawing at his skin, dark stones chiseled and sharp and suffocating against his chest. Vines crawl up the window frames and stoop low over the roof, almost brushing against the carriage like fingers reaching out, desperate to catch anything to keep itself from slipping away into nothingness.

Squinting from the blaring lights, he can see insects crawling over the damp grass, feel them through his shoes and up his spine, all tiny claws and piercing eyes and also all on his skin. He can feel his intake of air, but with the dark stones on his chest and the insects on his skin, it is like he can't breathe at all, lips drying with blood, his vision sliding away. He can't breathe, and his mind is stalling and his fingers shaking, panic swelling inside his chest and pushing up his throat like vomit.

It’s all too much; this castle, this school, these dark stones and glaring windows, insects on the grass and water swirling in formidable darkness. And he can't breathe- he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't- 

His fingers rush to his wrist, pushing onto the skin and grasping at his pulse, breathing through dry chapped lips and to the rapid beat of his heart pulsing below his skin and above his bones. Still can't breathe- he can't breathe and he doesn't understand why no one else can see the insects and stones and water and darkness- and he can't  _ breathe _ and- 

Further onto his pulse, reaching deeper, gripping onto the seat, breathe breathe breathe, insects on his chest, light on his skin, clouded window, breathe breathe breathe. 

His head  _ aches _ , wrists do too, but he can't breathe and he can't stop and  _ fuck _ , the world is slipping from his grasp like water through his fingertips. 

His pulse is racing, his breathing matching the pace as if in a race to see which can hurt him more. Nails dig deeper, and he can feel something on his wrist, pooling, dripping, cold and warm and light and dark- and he can't breathe he can't  _ breathe _ he can't-

“ _ Nico _ !”

His vision slides into focus, eventually, blurred from tears and his chest heaving and his throat raw, but he's breathing. He’s breathing, breathing, breathing, to a pulse that isn't his, hearing a voice that isn’t his.

“Are you alright?” 

Duncan slides into focus. And of course, of fucking course, it's him, with his airy gaze and soft words and searching eyes. His voice is smooth, breathy still, and a little hitched, but smooth and keeping Nico anchored to the world. And he can breathe- he can breathe he can breathe he can  _ breathe _ . But oh fuck, how bad this is. 

Then, there's silence, heavy, stagnant silence that makes Nico want to scream because it's oppressive and Duncan’s looking at him with pity and understanding. And oh fuck, how bad this is. Oh, oh fuck.

Duncan helps him stand, and Nico doesn't want him too, but his legs feel as though they will collapse and honestly, he's so fucking tired right now he's not sure if he can think of anything at all. 

He doesn't say anything, unsure what he  _ can  _ say, and neither does Duncan- they stand with the light from the carriages creating shadows in the grooves on his wrists. He traces his wand over Nico's wrists as he watches with a sick kind of disappointment as they close (because that is what he is- he's  _ sick;  _ he's sick and  _ disgusting  _ and-), with his chest aching and heart still hammering between his ribs, panic bitter in his blood. 

“Nico?” Duncan murmurs, “you'll be fine,” he breathes, hot against Nico’s skin, licking at his lips, so close, so fucking close. Nico tilts his head away from Duncan, looking anywhere but at him, anywhere, except the looming castle with the dark brick and glaring lights. 

His lips are sewn together, searing with pain but also a little numb, a strange sensation he can't place but kinda likes, too. So, he doesn't speak, keeps his lips together and his eyes away, hands and legs shaking and stomach heaving. Vomit threatens to flood his mouth, and he swallows thickly, dark eyes drooping to his feet with his slender, porcelain fingers reaching for the door. 

A hand grabs his wrist. He flinches; hard, tearing his wrist from Duncan’s grasp and jumping from the carriage, boots sinking into the muddy grass, insects and dark stones and moonlight turning his skin to silver. Then suddenly, he's running, the hazy blur of students filing into the giant, oak doors, wind whipping through his hair and rain spitting at his face. 

There’s footsteps behind him, fading away as he pushes his legs further, faster, faster, faster, his wrists and eyes still stinging with cuts and tears, his mind running faster than his feet but still not fast enough to process what just happened. 

He saw. He  _ saw _ , and now Nico has probably ruined any chance of friendship between them; between anyone, once rumours begin to spread. For a second, he considers turning back, running from Hogwarts altogether, from the wizarding world and letting his name become forgotten into the past. 

He considers it, sure, but then, where would he go, now that camp is a distant memory and even though he is always welcome in the Underworld, he doesn't know if he can fall back into that life so deeply, after so little time? No.

And besides, he said he would try and help, at least, so there's that, and the fact that Neville is staring at him with wide, curious eyes and parted lips. 

“You okay?” He mutters under his breath, as Nico falls into step beside him, sinking into the darkness a little, keeping his eyes far far away from the steeping castle. 

“Yeah, sure,” he shoots back, glancing behind him at the sprinting figure silhouetted in the moonlight. His long shadow stretches around him. “Can you excuse me?” 

He brushes past Neville’s arm, ignoring his muffled sounds of question, and slips through the crowds and into the entrance hall, made of grey stone with a high ceiling and wide hallways, large windows sparking with shattered silver.

Harry Potter stands a few metres away from him, eyes still a little panicked and unhinged, mouth almost moving too late for the words that trickle from his lips. He’s moving his arms, animatedly, round glasses trapping the orange glow of the candles and casting shadows under his eyes. His words are dry, and Nico’s lips are, too. 

The crowds shuffle into the Great Hall, a drone of incessant chatter in his ears. His pulse is slow, now, he finds, when he slides his fingertips back to his wrists, and when he concentrates his breathing matches the metronome that is his heartbeat. 

Slowly, he blinks, breathing through the darkness that suddenly floods through his sight, as the stone walls and shuffling crowds melt into just, darkness. If he tries hard enough, he can listen past the white noise around him and focus on the life churning under his feet, the spectral life he can sense not too far away- a few metres, maybe, maybe a little more- that makes his spine straighten and tingle, lips curving into a frown and ears ringing a little. 

Ghosts- of course.

When the crowd splits, he sees it, shimmering, all wisps of silver and grey, illuminated by the candles that grow distorted around it, orange and warm and a little unsettling when drenched in ghostly mist. He stares at it with a distant look of annoyance and anger ghosting on his features, until it's translucent eyes turn, meeting his with a sudden jolt of fear, before the ghost with the bloody chains melts into the shadows. Then, Nico stares at his hands, feeling awfully powerful, awfully disgusted. 

The second thing that catches his sparse attention is the ceiling, glittering with stars that manage to peek through the swirling masses of grey, ominous clouds storming in the blackness. It spans the full length of the hall, catching his attention and then imprisoning it with the moon that slides from where it had been hidden by the clouds. Then, once again, the silver, glowing orb is obscured with grey, and Nico’s left staring at his hands again. 

He’s moving forward again, almost automatically, but also hyper aware of the way his boots slap against the grey stone underfoot, and the eyes on his skin now that most of the crowd has parted and sat down at the four, long tables. Almost automatically– until it isn't, and he's overthinking his every movement again and again. Suddenly his own breathing seems too loud. 

Panic wells in his chest again, throat drying and lips a little bloody, but he forces himself to breathe breathe breathe, because he won't panic– not in front of so many people. Instead, he pushes his feet forwards, each step lasting a millennia, each eye on him feeling like a poisoned needle, each heartbeat echoing through his chest. The distance between him and the long table where he assumes all the staff sit stretches, the destination dimming, almost, until it is blurred from sight. Time is slow, and fast, confusing and clear and all the antonyms that he can't really think of, because he can't really think of much right now.

The Great Hall presses onto his chest and shoulders; his composure slips, just for a second, but Dumbledore’s blue, twinkling gaze makes it hard to believe it was ever there at all. Today, he's dressed in deep-purple robes with little silver stars spattered across the colour, almost mirroring the sky if not for the grey clouds dimming the light. The wrinkles in his skin deepen in the candlelight, reminding Nico of rivers, flooding from the icy springs in his irises and forging into his face. He doesn't really look at anyone else, doesn't really think he can.

It's not silent (which Nico is fucking grateful for), but instead there is still the constant white noise of chatter in his ears, whispering and muttering and reminding Nico maybe a little too much of when he was back at Camp Half-Blood- but they don't really know who he is here, not really, so he hopes that that is enough. 

Flashes of gold and scarlet and silver and green and bronze and blue and black and yellow distract him a little, but he doesn't turn to look at them or take his eyes from Dumbledore’s piercing own. His arms heavy against his sides, fingers shaking a little, he reaches the table, swallowing thickly when the chatter snaps into focus. Then, as if in order, the rest of the world melts into focus again, and it's all toomuchtoosoontooquick and his heartbeat is all toomuchtoosoontooquick, too.

“Ah, Mr di Angelo.” 

Nico uses the voice as an anchor to keep himself tied down to the world, grabbing onto the syllables with shaky fingers and using all his strength to keep himself in place. For a second, his vision swims and the floor almost sways, but he grabs onto the voice and the floor is underneath his feet again. 

“That's me,” he answers, weakly, voice cracking a little which he hates with a burning passion as he inhales through his nose and out from his mouth. Dumbledore regards him for a moment, as if rethinking his choice to let Nico enroll, before he smiles and nods to a woman whose hair is pulled so tightly into a bun Nico almost winces. 

Dumbledore then turns to face Nico, and then explains in a quiet tone to where Nico should stand and to do what. He makes a vague gesture to where a fucking group of shaken eleven year olds stand, wide eyes flitting everywhere and nowhere at all, and Nico clenches his fists, nails cutting into his palms, and then hurries uneasily back across the stone floors. 

He stands a little behind them, taking care not to make too-long eye contact and he finds himself looking at his hands again, inspecting the pale scars carved onto his skin. The candles seem to glow menacingly red. Eventually, he unclenches his fists, and his palms are kinda red, too. 

Then, he sees it, balanced precariously on a stool that looks as though it will collapse at any moment. A fucking hat, of all things, all frayed edges and dark material. Confusion dancing on his lips and blood on his palms, he quirks a brow.

There's still a buzz of white noise, but he can easily ignore it and instead he directs his attention to the stern-faced women whose heels click against the floor as she walks. With a fading scroll in her hand, she regards the students with a stiff nod, left boot brushing against the limp hat. 

Nico glances around, curious at the mixed expressions mirroring his and the others as polar opposites, thick, dark bangs caressing at his cheekbones and bow-shaped lips parted a little. The first-year’s faces are pale in the candlelight, almost ashy, some even trembling, some frozen to where they stand upon the cold cold stone. His finger shake a little, kinda slick with blood from the marks in his palms. Hesitantly, he rocks onto the balls of his feet to peer over the sea of heads kinda blocking his view. The hat stays still and lifeless, but he's not sure what he had expected it to do. 

But then it moves, and Nico isn't sure what to think anymore. Seams split, forming what looks vaguely like a mouth, and then it sings, scratchy and loud and ringing in his ears. It sings, and Nico waits with bated breath. 

“In times of old when I was new

And Hogwarts barely started

The founders of our noble school

Thought never to be parted:

United by a common goal,

They had the selfsame yearning,

To make the world’s best magic school

And pass along their learning.

‘Together we will build and teach!’

The four good friends decided

And never did they dream that they

Might some day be divided,

For were there such friends anywhere

As Slytherin and Gryffindor?

Unless it was the second pair

Of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?

So how could it have gone so wrong?

How could such friendships fail?

Why, I was there and so can tell

The whole sad, sorry tale.

Said Slytherin, ‘We’ll teach just those

Whose ancestry is purest.’

Said Ravenclaw, ‘We’ll teach those whose

Intelligence is surest.’

Said Gryffindor, ‘We’ll teach all those

With brave deeds to their name,’

Said Hufflepuff, ‘I’ll teach the lot,

And treat them just the same.’

These differences caused little strife

When first they came to light,

For each of the four founders had

A house in which they might

Take only those they wanted, so,

For instance, Slytherin

Took only pure-blood wizards

Of great cunning, just like him,

And only those of sharpest mind

Were taught by Ravenclaw

While the bravest and the boldest

Went to daring Gryffindor.

Good Hufflepuff, she took the rest,

And taught them all she knew,

Thus the houses and their founders

Retained friendships firm and true.

So Hogwarts worked in harmony

For several happy years,

But then discord crept among us

Feeding on our faults and fears.

The houses that, like pillars four,

Had once held up our school,

Now turned upon each other and,

Divided, sought to rule.

And for a while it seemed the school

Must meet an early end,

What with duelling and with fighting

And the clash of friend on friend

And at last there came a morning

When old Slytherin departed

And though the fighting then died out

He left us quite downhearted.

And never since the founders four

Were whittled down to three

Have the houses been united

As they once were meant to be.

And now the Sorting Hat is here

And you all know the score:

I sort you into houses

Because that is what I’m for,

But this year I’ll go further,

Listen closely to my song:

Though condemned I am to split you

Still I worry that it’s wrong,

Though I must fulfil my duty

And must quarter every year

Still I wonder whether Sorting

May not bring the end I fear.

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,

The warning history shows,

For our Hogwarts is in danger

From external, deadly foes

And we must unite inside her

Or we’ll crumble from within

I have told you, I have warned you ...

Let the Sorting now begin.”

Then there's a pregnant silence, and Nico isn't really sure how long it lasts, not really sure what the words mean but pretty sure that they don't mean anything good. He waits, hands itching to burrow inside pockets that aren't there, his frown and thoughts deepening with his shaking fingers. He waits, as does the whole school, in an edgy, apprehensive silence, until someone eventually claps, the sound cutting through his thoughts and silence. In a second, the rest of the hall erupts in clapping; and Nico isn't really sure what to think anymore. 

“Abercrombie, Euan.”

The woman's voice rattles through the muttering and dissolves it into silence. A boy, terrified and almost ghostly pale, startles, eyes widening with panic, before he stumbles forward towards the stool and hat. The seams close, and the hat slips back into its state of lifelessness. 

Trembling a little, the boy sits on the stool and the teacher slips the hat over his head, and it almost covers his eyes as it falls past his brows, brushing lightly against his lashes. He taps his foot on the floor, chewing on one lip, all nervous energy and restless legs. 

There’s a few seconds (or maybe it's a minute, but Nico can't really tell) of quiet, before the hat’s seam splits again, and it's shout of 'Gryffindor’,echoes through the hall. An applause of shouting and clapping spills from the table decorated in red and gold, and Abercrombie slides into a seat with his cheeks almost as red as the table cloth. 

Nico kinda tunes off for the rest, his attention and the first-year's dwindling, focus instead fixated on scratching the blood from his porcelain skin. He distantly hears the kinda scary teacher call out, “Zeller, Rose,” and the sound of clapping flooding his ears, then there's a moment of just, nothing, as he looks up and finds himself standing alone, with eyes on his skin and blood on his lips. 

Dumbledore, a fucking grin painted on his lips, beckons Nico forward with a welcoming hand and he steps from the shadows and tries to detach himself from the anxiety prickling his skin. He can hear mutters again, see curious eyes, taste unanswered questions. It distantly smells of shoe polish and wood, and he tries to focus on that and not his shaky legs as he stands opposite Dumbledore. The dark wand in his pocket suddenly feels too heavy. 

“To our newcomers,” he says, voice booming and pressing on Nico’s throat, “welcome! And to our old hands– welcome back!” He then averts his blue blue eyes from the students to Nico, and he suddenly feels oddly out of place with his dark hair and dark eyes and dark boots against the bright smiles and bright eyes and bright floor. But he meets Dumbledore’s gaze anyway, and lifts a dark brow. 

“We have a new student joining us, as I’m sure you have noticed,” the headmaster says, “and I hope you will all treat him with the kindness and hospitality that you treat your friends with. This, students and staff, is Nico di Angelo, and now, let his sorting begin!”

Applause, deafening and oppressive, and Nico swallows as he sits on the stool, the hat sliding on his dark hair and resting just above his brows. 

“So.” 

He startles, suppressing his flinch, and runs his tongue over his teeth.

“Only you can hear,” the voice says again, and it doesn't take long for Nico to realise that the hat– a fucking hat– is speaking to him by some telepathic shit. 

“It's been a while since I've sorted a demigod.” 

Nico frowns. “Just sort me please, Mr. Hat.” 

It chuckles, which Nico is 90% sure isn't possible but here we fucking are with a goddamn chuckling hat on his head that can somehow read his thoughts. 

“In due time, Mr di Angelo,” it shoots back. “But first, where should we sort you to, hmm?” 

Nico audibly sighs, blinking slowly. “Look, it doesn't matter where I should be– just, just sort me where is best for my quest, okay.”

“Your quest, hmm? This is tricky, very much so. You’re a Slytherin, without a doubt, cunning, sly, sure, sure, but best for your quest? That would be Gryffindor, very much so, but to sort you into Gryffindor would not be fitting at all. Definitely not.

“Best for my quest, okay. It doesn't matter what house I should be in, just what is best, okay?” 

“Hmm.” 

Nico taps his feet in frustration, and another wave of murmurs flutter through the tables. He clenches his fists around the stool, white knuckles contrasting to his dark sleeves almost aesthetically. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” 

“It means, Mr di Angelo, that Gryffindor will be the most effective, but Slytherin is definitely your house. So, that poses a difficult situation.” 

Nico drums his fingers against the wood, half-considering ripping the hat from his hair and shadow-travelling as far away as he can manage.

“If I am to place you in Slytherin, it will be the best for you; you’ll make your real friends there; you’ll thrive, indefinitely. However, it will make your quest a little more difficult, as the best way for you to gain your information is to talking to Harry Potter and those friends of his, which will be close to impossible as a Slytherin. On the other hand, say I place you in Gryffindor and you manage to befriend a few– and if you’re lucky Harry Potter himself, that will be the best for your quest. But, with no offense intended, you probably won't fit in very well with the rest in your house, as you lack the quality of being recklessly brave. Say I put you in Gryffindor, it's both going to be beneficial and not for you, and for Slytherin the same. So I ask you, Son of Hades, what do you choose: the quest, or yourself?”

Nico pauses, eyes narrowing on the little scuff on his combat boots and mulling over the hat's words. It's a simple question, really. Him, or the quest. Him, or thousands. Him, or innocent blood spilled. It's a simple question, really, and he answers as he hears someone cough into the lingering silence. 

“Gryffindor, then, if it will be best for my quest.”

He waits, breath kinda hitched, fingers finally uncurling from the stool, as the hat stays silent on his hair. Overhead, the ceiling glitters with stars and the clouds swirl amongst the constellations, the biting silver glow of the moon masked by dull grey. He waits, and then the hat speaks.

“Gryffindor!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (if im going to be honest i didn't really want him to be in gryffindor either but it helps to get the plot moving) thank you for reading


	8. my life is a play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico has his first meal at Hogwarts.

In the candlelight, his skin glows gold, cheeks flushed with red. His eyes scan the sea of redheads and his fingertips balance a golden form between them, looking at both everything and nothing, legs bouncing beneath the oak tables. 

He sits at the end of table and tries to ignore the white noise of muttering in his ears, answering questions with short, awkward answers and keeping his hands on his cutlery to keep them still. The golden tablecloth contrasts against the alabaster white of his skin, the colour dancing over him like a smattering of something beautiful. He wears a placid expression, concealing the anxiety brewing in his chest. The candle lights paints him in gold. 

He can't remember what Dumbledore has said, exactly, after he sat down and tried to ignore the stares burning into his skin, but his purple robes catches Nico’s divided attention again and his focus lands on the wizard, once more. His features deepen in the candlelight, giving age and character to those blue blue eyes of his, when his eyebrows climb upwards at the muttering buzzing around the body of students. He doesn't say anything, however, and Nico’s attention is drawn to the golden plates now covered by food that makes his stomach churn a little. 

He glances to his side, a cold feeling harbouring in his chest and prickling over his skin, when he spots the ghost from earlier hovering around Harry, Ron and Hermione, an expression of shock and fear poisoning it's features when it notices Nico’s dark dark eyes on it. It's almost severed head rocks precariously, and it's silver, glassy eyes turn back to the trio when Nico can almost feel it trying to ignore his gaze. 

“–the Hat gave several warnings before,” he hears it say with his gaze on the students, “always at times when it detects periods of great danger for the school. And always, of course, it's advice is the same: stand together, be strong from within.” It's voice trails off a little, and Nico barely hears Ron’s reply through the buzz in his ears. 

‘Ow kunnit nofe skusin danger ifzat?' mumbles Ron, cheeks puffed out. 

“I beg your pardon?”

After that, Nico tunes them out and redirects his gaze to his plate, still empty, cold under his touch. 

The food is very nice, he supposes, but his stomach churns and his legs bounce under the table with nerves, so he doesn't really eat that much other than what he figures is required to look genuine. He eats, and doesn't offer to burn any, either, reasoning that it would attract too much unwanted attention that he definitely doesn't want right now.

(He ignores the nagging that says that his reluctance has something to do with the gods being the reason Nico’s childhood went up in flames, too. He ignores it, a little). 

By now, most people have figured that he doesn't really want to be answering questions, and he’s left alone is a kind of strange solitude in his own bubble of quiet. His legs relax, stop bouncing, and brush against the bench as he swallows the last of his meal down, savouring the taste on his tongue and hoping it won't turn to bitterness like it often does. He supposes he should be grateful he can taste anything at all, unlike sometimes after he has undergone stress and shadow travel. He supposes he should be grateful for a lot of things

Eventually, the meals clear from the plates and platters and Dumbledore rises again, that same look of character on his features that remind Nico of Chiron, in a way. He quickly pushes the thought aside. Dumbledore grins with his teeth glinting in the candlelight.

“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” says Dumbledore, blue blue eyes sweeping over the hall and outstretching his arms. 

“First-years ought to know that the Forest in the grounds is out-of-bounds to students – and a few of our older students ought to know by now, too.” From the corner of his eye, Nico see's the Gryffindor trio smirk a little to each other and he raises a brow, a part of him wondering what could possibly be in such forest.

“Mr Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four-hundred-and-sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr Filch’s office door. We have had two changes in staffing this year.”

Nico scans the staff table, lingering for a second on a woman he doesn't know how he didn't notice before. The pink of her clothes contrasts against the plain robes the rest of the staff wear, sweet, poisonous smile catching his breath in his throat. His eyes narrow, and her patience does, too. 

“We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

There was a round of polite applause, but it was stunted and unenthusiastic and tension thickens in the hall.

Dumbledore continues, seemingly oblivious to the mood, “Tryouts for the house Quidditch teams will take place on the –”

He breaks off, words interrupted by a cough from the teacher Nico can only guess is Professor Umbridge, with her pink cardigan and violently sugared eyes. She stands, her legs short and her arms thick, wearing an expression of fake interest with honeyed words and pretty lies. For a moment, Dumbledore seems taken aback, before he sits and looks inquisitively at Professor Umbridge with a almost convincing alertness if Nico didn't know better.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Professor Umbridge simpers, “for those kind words of welcome.”

Nico, almost wincing at her voice of all breath and high-pitched tones, pulls his bow lips together and bites down on his tongue. A flare of dislike flares through his veins. 

She smiles sweetly, a flash of pointed, white teeth, and continues. “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!”

“And to see such happy little faces looking up at me!”

Nico almost chokes, glancing around at the faces around him that definitely don't look remotely happy, instead wearing frowns and glares that he mirrors.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!

The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance.

The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community must be passed down the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”

Professor Umbridge pauses and bows to the teachers, as if to expect one back. Expectedly, none do, and Nico notices that Professor McGonagall’s dark eyebrows have drawn together tightly, her mouth a thin line and eyes like snakes. 

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay.

  
  


There again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation …”

Nico finds his leg bouncing again, his mind slowing almost like a broken radio searching for a signal it knows it won’t find, but he forces his attention to focus and glares at his hands. 

“... because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement.

Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

She sits, and the silence that follows her speech is threatening, stagnant and difficult to swallow until it is broken by scattered claps that eventually break into applause. Nico doesn't clap with them. 

He frowns, grasping onto any information that he can remember before he forgets it. To his left, he can hear Hermione and Ron and Harry muttering together, necks bent and heads bowed and their eyebrows all kinds of different expressions. Harry’s dark hair falls over his face, and his startling green eyes are muted and dulled as though her speech had taken something from them. Hermione is frowning, eyes accusing and tone incredulous, speaking far too fast for Nico to hear what she is saying. The fire of Ron’s hair anchors his attention, and he watches with bated breath as Dumbledore regards Professor Umbridge with a nod as he stands again. Silence, only broken by scattered, lingering mutters, rests on the hall.

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” he says, bowing to her, expression light and polite despite the conflicting emotions in those blue blue irises Nico can't help to notice. 

“Now, as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held …”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you think!


End file.
